Vanishing Point
by strangedazey
Summary: Sherlock has always done his best to ignore his Alpha impulses. Jim Moriarty is going to put that all to the test when he brings serial-killer Sebastian Moran back to England, along with Sara, the only Omega that Sherlock thought about bonding with. The game is on. Sherlock x OFC. Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics. Ye've been warned!
1. Chapter 1

The blood smeared writing on the wall decorates the abandoned building like some sort of macabre wallpapering, and it speaks of a pain that was beyond bearing. The kind of suffering that leaves you pleading _for_ _someone, for anyone, to just end it all, make it stop, please for the love of god just let me die. _

_**Rheinallt**_

The name is written in blood over the body in large dark letters, and the blood has darkened as it dried until it looked almost black in the pale light of morning. The writing had ran slightly before it dried, but what is says is unmistakable, and Mycroft Holmes presses his fingers to his eyes in a weary gesture as he turns away from the grisly image on his computer screen.

The picture had been sent to her approximately 60 minutes ago, and he has still not received a reply from her.

He wonders if he will regret the telephone call he is about to make.

He wonders if she is afraid.

"I'm on my way now." It is all she tells him, but he can hear the breath catch in her throat, and he tells her the only thing he can before she hangs up the phone.

"I am sorry." It is a useless platitude, but he _means_ it. Not only for what he knows has happened, but for the events yet to unfold.

Mycroft Holmes has never been a whimsical man, never been one to believe in fate. But he thinks now, that if he were such a person, that he could almost believe that some things were simply inevitable.

* * *

"I have a case for you."

"No," Sherlock tells him almost before the words have left Mycroft's mouth - but he won't deny a twinge of curiosity. Mycroft looks … tired. His brother hasn't slept for at least 24 hours, and the slight stubble on his face indicates that he hadn't taken to time to shave after his morning shower, though his crisp white shirt shows he had taken the time to put on clean clothes before coming to see him.

It is a personal favour he is asking for then, which make it all the sweeter to tell him _no_ again, but this time with a hint of good cheer in his voice.

Sherlock draws the bow across the strings of his violin in dismissal, though he can feel Mycroft's blue eyes boring holes in his back, and he ignores that as well in favour of the music. It was just the two of them, John had gone to take his shift at the clinic due to the dearth of clients today, when Mycroft had arrived and he had been just bored enough to allow his brother to ask him for help before shutting him down. It was almost laughable really, how easy it was to¾

"There was another prostitute murdered last night," Mycroft said, and Sherlock realizes he is _furious_, and silently wonders what his brother is up to.

"Well, considering it is the world's oldest profession, I still doubt you will have problems finding a companion," Sherlock said solemnly, and watches Mycroft's face flushes red at the innuendo.

"This time he has left a message at the scene of the crime."

"Ah, yet another small minded individual that has delusions of grandeur, thinking he can achieve fame by emulating the Ripper murders. _Dull," _Sherlock said as he began the concerto again.

He walks over to the window as he plays and watches the people hurrying along the street as they go about there ordinary lives, and he wonders how they can do the same thing day in and day out without going mad from boredom.

"The name _Rheinallt_ was written in blood on the wall behind the body."

The violin makes a screech like a stepped on cat when nimble fingers go numb and slip on the bow, and he is left blinking at his brother in shock.

"I've kept the crime scene preserved for you," Mycroft said sounding pleased that he'd finally gotten the reaction he'd been waiting for.

"You've called her." It isn't a question, but Mycroft answers him.

"She'll arrive in London this evening." Mycroft said, then he sighed. "I had no choice."

"She was free from danger, and now she has been called home._ You've _called her home," Sherlock said with a hint of a growl to his words now.

"Her name was written in _blood _over the body of a murdered prostitute. I think it's safe to assume that she would have come on her own once she'd been made aware that Sebastian Moran, one of her former patients, had jumped the pond and is now taking up his former activities in London," Mycroft snaps at him, but Sherlock sees the guilt in his eyes all the same.

The implications send him reeling. The return of Moriarty. Moran surfacing in London after a whirlwind crime spree in America that had ending with Sara being the one to assist in his capture four years ago.

And now, the final coup de grâce of all of it coming together.

"You could have covered this up, just like any other thing that you don't want to see the light of day and not have involved her," Sherlock snapped back at him. "You know as well as I that Moran doesn't make a move without Moriarty telling him too, and now you've brought Sara into the mix."

He knows that he is just giving Mycroft more ammunition to use against him, but still he can't seem to _stop. _He is the one now who has been caught flatfooted, the one who has been blind to his surroundings, and he can't keep the tremor out of his voice now.

"I won't do this. I _can't," _Sherlock whispered.

"You can and you will." Mycroft's tone in implacable, as is the push of an older Alpha to a sibling. "You will render her any aid she requires, and you will do it willingly, Sherlock."

He tugs his coat on and walks to the door before turning to look at him again, and if it were anyone else but his brother Sherlock would think he was feeling sorry for him.

"You owe her this, if nothing else." And with that decree ringing in the air between them, Mycroft leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock showers and dresses mechanically. The body is just transport, the mind is all that matters-but his heart is drumming in his chest as he hails a cab that will take him to the address his brother has for left for him, and he's disgusted with himself at the appalling display of nerves.

He _wants_ to see her, he finds himself looking forward to it, and it dismays him more than he would ever admit to just how much. Unfortunately, he thinks that Sara might not be overly excited to see him given how he'd left things with her.

Not good doesn't even begin to cover it.

* * *

The last time was when he was at Oxford, and the parts he remembers of that time are a bit dodgy at best. Not the parts that include Sara though. Those memories are firmly etched into his mind like a pattern carved into stone and nothing could ever wipe the surface completely smooth. Sherlock rolls his eyes at his own whimsical thoughts. This is why he has always avoided attachments, has avoided all the entanglements that occur between Alphas and Omegas, because the sentiment involved in such things is nothing but a sinkhole to drown your intellect in.

But part of him wants to squirm because when Mycroft said that he owed her, he was right.

He probably owes Sara Rheinallt his life.

He hadn't even noticed her at first, which just went to show how high he was at the time.

Sherlock is sitting outside the lab smoking with one of his classmates (Victor does a tidy side business selling heroin - he needs to come down from the coke) when he finally realizes that someone is calling his name and notices her.

He finds all the clever words drying up in his mouth, and all he can do is stare.

Sara is standing backlit by the sun, and the sun turns the red in her hair to fire (it's longer now by 11 centimetres and hangs to the middle of her back in long waves) and he watches as the bright smile on her face fades as she takes him in. He feels something in his chest give a sharp twist when he sees she is still using the walking stick he had given her after the accident, hints of the silver handle glimmer under her palm where she's gripping it, and she is wearing a pair of faded blue-jeans and a sweatshirt with a Duke University logo on it.

Mycroft had told him that she would be attending uni in the states, and it had _hurt, _even though he knew better than to expect her to _(come back to him) _come back to England.

It's been over a year since her parent's funeral and the last time he'd seen her, and Sherlock knows he's a mess. He stands up and almost falls on his arse when the sudden movement makes his head swim and his vision blur 'round the edges. He hasn't slept for days and it's been even longer since he'd bothered to eat a meal, and he wants to flinch at the look of shock on her face, but he won't.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked. He hears Victor make an obscene comment as to what he could do with the pretty little ginger Omega, and Sherlock tells him to fuck off, then gives him two fingers for good measure before he walks over to her.

"I want you to come with me," Sara said, and then she holds out her hand to him-and he wants to make a joke of it, or say something hateful that will send her off in tears, but he finds he can't.

"Go home, Sara," he says wearily. He doesn't want her here. Never wanted her to see _this, _but the next thing he knows she has her head buried against his chest with her arms wrapped tightly around him, and it _breaks _him in a way no amount of shouting could ever do and Sherlock shudders as he rubs his cheek against the cool silk of her hair.

He's never paid more attention to the dynamic between Alpha and Omegas than he's absolutely had to, but he'd have to be dead to be able to ignore the scent of Omega in distress that bleeds into the air around her. Nature dictates that Alphas are supposed to be the caretakers of the Omegas in their lives, and that fact is brought to Sherlock's attention with shocking intensity as he pulls her closer and rumbles a soothing sound at her in a effort to calm her.

He doesn't even utter a word of protest when she takes his hand and leads him to her car. It is the same Aston Martin of her father's that he had taught her to drive in, and she takes them to the flat her parents had kept in the city.

The flat is large, with bright airy rooms and tall windows, and the furniture is a mixture of soft faded velvets and plush leather sofas that remind him of holidays and rainy days in Wales when he was a child. There are numerous photographs on the walls along with the artwork that show Sara and David with their parents before the accident happened and their world had been torn apart. He walks over to the window and looks down at the city because he cannot bring himself to look at her, and Sherlock closes his eyes for a long minute.

"I don't know if I can do this," he confesses. It is easier if he keeps his eyes on the city below rather than try to face her and risk seeing disappointment in her eyes, but he always gets something_ wrong, _and when he finally makes himself look at her all he sees in her eyes is worry.

And possibly _love_, and he knows he is doomed.

Sara walks over to him slowly (as if she thought he might bolt) and she cups his face in her hands. She runs her fingertips over his high-cheekbones, along the stubble on his jaw and he leans into her touch and closes his eyes.

"Yes, you can," she tells him before she rises up on her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek.

He takes a shower and dresses in an old t-shirt and pyjama bottoms and a flannel dressing gown of her father's that he knows she can't bear to part with, and when he looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and the face that looks back at him is ashen. He's always been fair, but now he thinks he's seen dead bodies in anatomy class that had more colour to them. His cheekbones stand out in stark relief against his pale skin and his eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. There is a tremor in his hands as he combs his hair that is a warning there are much worse things in store for him once the withdrawal really starts, and he turns away from the glass image because he knows he can't do this. There's no way. He's tried before and the withdrawal was beyond bearing, and he had run away from the rehab-centre Mycroft had committed him to like a thief in the night.

They eat food that he doesn't want on the floor in front of the fireplace, and when she asks him how he's been he laughs until there are tears standing in his eyes. He laughs until he can't breathe and then he just _stops, _and Sherlock is left clenching his fists against the horrible urge to cry.

Sara leans over and kisses him and he is left blinking at her in shock. He is too surprised to react other than to gape at her. This is Sara who is kissing him, and he hasn't seen her in over a year-and at the same time, it is _Sara, _and it's the first thing that's felt right to him in a very long time.

Sherlock pulls her onto his lap and then _he_ is kissing _her_. For once he feels his mind go blissfully quiet, and it is nothing like he ever imagined it to be. She is soft and warm in his arms and he pulls her tightly to him as the lush scent of Omega rises around them, and he feels his body react to her as his cock hardens almost immediately as he presses kisses into the soft skin of her neck. Sherlock shudders helplessly when she offers him her throat with a soft sound and then whispers his name, but he controls himself. He doesn't bite. He doesn't do any of things biology demands, he just rubs his cheek along hers and enjoys the feel of her in his arms.

Sara pulls back and touches her forehead to his, and her dark grey eyes shine with good humour as she smiles at him. "I've missed you Sherlock."

Sherlock snorts out a laugh. He's about to go through drug withdrawal that will make him pray to die, he hasn't slept for days, is currently on the verge flunking out of university, and yet he is unexpectedly truthful with her.

"I'm glad to see you too Sara."

They lay in front of the fire and Sherlock has his head resting on her leg and Sara is running her fingers through his hair. It feels so good he is getting drowsy under her hands, and as he begins to drift off to sleep he realizes that he feels safe with her.

In the morning she takes him to Wales.

They are driving along the coast to her parents home ( her home now, she says David wants nothing to do with it, and he doesn't press her as to why) and while he would normally enjoy the scent of the ocean, now the sharp briny smell is just adding to the growing urge to vomit. Along with numbing his mind to the constant over-stimulation of the world beating at it, the drugs also dull him to the scents that he would normally pick up with an Alpha's sharp sense of smell. The sea, the leather of the seats in the car, the faint hint of cigarette smoke that lingers in the fabric of his coat all threaten to overwhelm him, but over it all he can smell the warm and calming scent of Omega that is Sara. So he closes his eyes against the sight and sounds that want to overwhelm him and concentrates on the soothing scent of her and the sound of her voice and lets it lull him to sleep.

The house is exactly as he remembers it, and when they go inside it is like stepping into the past. He gives Sara a sidelong glance and knows she is thinking that the last time they were together here her parents had just died, but she ignores the memories and shows him around the house.

"You been here recently," he says. It is not a question. The whole place sparkles; the windows are freshly washed, there is fresh paint on the walls as well, and the chevron pattern in the wood floors have been polished and a mellow golden glow to him. The furniture is a mixture of old and new, and he smiles when he sees that she'd left the monstrosity of a leather chair that her father had been so fond of.

"I'm moving back for good in the spring." Sara turns to face him then, and he can tell she is nervous about telling him this, like he would tell her to stay away. "I'm transferring after this term is over with and moving back home."

Sherlock can't stop the smile that spreads across his face, and this time he is the one to take her in his arms even though he is starting to shiver in reaction to the drug withdrawal.

Sara leads him to a bedroom, it is one he and Mycroft had shared on holiday as children and she quickly builds a fire and the warmth feels so unbelievable good even though he can feel sweat breaking out along his temples. Sherlock lies down on the bed and he feels like his entire body is twitching and likely it is, and he tells her that he's fine, but Sara ignores him and goes in the bathroom, coming back with a damp cloth and starts wiping his face before he can bat her hands away.

"I'm not leaving you Sherlock, so you might as well quit being a stubborn arse and let me help you." She is giving him a look that he remembers well from when they are children when someone would push her to the limit of her temper (likely himself or her brother) and it makes him want to laugh even as the nausea reaches critical mass and he lunges off the bed and runs for the toilet. He makes it in time to vomit up everything he has eaten the night before, and what feels like the vast majority of his liver as well, and then he has no strength left to argue with.

The next few days pass in a blur and a howling mass of pain.

He is sweating rivers, and is simultaneously freezing while he lies on the bed and twitches and shakes. His nose runs constantly, which is ironic given he never snorted the cocaine and everything is _too loud, too hot, too cold_, and when he's not delirious he knows she never leaves his side and he wants to hate her. He thinks he _tells _her that he hates her at some point.

And maybe he does hate her, but he also thinks that he loves her as well.

Sara takes care of him tirelessly. Changes the sheets and his clothes when they are drenched with sweat without complaint, even when he thinks she should leave him in his own mess when he can't get to his feet in time and vomits in the bed.

He rages at her. Tells her that he cannot do this, that he doesn't _want _to do this, and why the fuck did she think that he needed _her _for anything.

If he had any energy he would laugh at the way she just raises a brow and looks down her nose at him. As it is all he can manage is a weak smile when she just rolls her eyes and calls him a tosser.

Sherlock is sitting as close to the fireplace as he can without actually sitting in the fire, and now he is _freezing,_ and his teeth are chattering when she comes in with a steaming cup of tea and what smells like some kind of broth on a tray. Sara holds the cup to his lips when his hands are shaking too badly to do it himself, and the sweetness and warmth of it are like a balm to his raw throat as he drinks. She makes him drink all the tea and part of the broth before she tucks herself under the blanket with him, and he burrows into the heat of her body. She is so warm and he can feel his eyes want to close in response, he is so _tired_, and when she takes him by the hand he lets her lead him to the bed and climbs in with him he wraps himself around her as tightly as he can, and feels at peace for the first time in what feels like forever.

He feels better when he wakes up the next time, which means little because he still feels like complete shit, but he'll take it. The haze of the last few days has lifted slightly, and he is intensely aware now that they are both almost naked under the mountain of blankets that were piled on the bed. He can feel a tremor run through his body for an entirely different reason. Now there is the sharp scent of Alpha and Omega pheromones twining together much like the way Sara is wrapped around his body. Her head is on his shoulder, strands of her hair are snagged on the stubble on his chin, and her legs are tangled with his and Sherlock swears he feels all the blood drain from his brain when she shifts in her sleep and her leg brushes his (now throbbing) erection as he nuzzles the curve of her neck.

His body is just transport, the mind is all. He's always eschewed all the little nuances of Alpha/Omega behaviours, he tells himself that it's nothing but the mindless biology of an Alpha scenting an Omega that is making him react like this. But he wants her to touch him so badly his mouth is dry and he is shaking from sheer want. He tries to soothe himself with the thought that if he were this close physically with _any_ Omega he would react in the same way, but he knows it for a lie.

It infuriates him to no end that she has wrought this change in him, but then she shifts in her sleep again and he helplessly tightens his arms around her with a soft growl in response. This is what wakes her, and she blinks at him with sleepy eyes before her lips quirk up in a smile and all he can think is how much he wants to kiss her. Wants to do all the things that he's overheard other Alphas brag about doing about with Omegas but has never really let himself think overly long about. And while he knows the mechanics of kissing and all the things that follow (his brain has enthusiastically seized on, _mounting her _and_ biting her _and _oh god_, _knotting her_) but he has never actually _done _any them, and he is struck mute with longing because for once in his life Sherlock has no idea what to say.

A lock of fiery coloured hair hangs in her eyes, and he brushes it back and gathers his courage and presses his lips to hers and then Sara is kissing him back and he is lost. He rolls them over, Alpha instincts want her pinned under him (they also tell him it's easier to mount and knot her this way) and knows it for a colossal mistake when it brings her in direct contact with his aching prick and desire rips him apart¾and for once he doesn't care at all as he licks and nips at the silky skin of Sara's neck.

She says his name twice, then shoves him back in a move that has him snarling loudly at her, but then she yanks her t-shirt off over her head, and it leaves her naked except for the silky black knickers she's wearing. Her breasts aren't overly large, which isn't a shock, Sara is appallingly short, but they are firm and her nipples are flushed a dusky pink against the ivory of her skin. She has the delicate, almost translucent complexion that is particular to some red-heads and there is a light scattering of freckles on her breasts as well as the ones on her face, and Sherlock wants to lick every single one of them.

He draws in a deep breath to scent her and feels his eyes flutter shut when he realizes he can fucking _smell_ how ready she is for him, and Sherlock makes a guttural sound deep in his throat. He jumps at the feels of Sara's hands on his arms, then laughs as she pulls his dressing gown off his shoulders and presses close to him. He rolls her underneath him again and grins down at her when he sees the grey is her eyes had been almost drowned out by the blackness of her pupils. Her skin feels hot as he rubs lightly against her, and it makes him wonder how close she is to her heat. He pulls back and licks a wet line over her stomach that makes her gasp and arch her back in pleasure and he watches her carefully as he tries running his tongue over a stiff nipple as she tangles her fingers in his curls and then she pulls him up for another kiss.

He thinks things would have turned out much better, or worse depending how you look at if he hadn't gotten sick again.

Sherlock feels his stomach roll over and has enough time at least to get to the toilet before he starts vomiting again. When he finally regains control of his stomach again Sara hands him a glass of water, then wipes his face with a damp flannel. He can feel shame turning his face a violent shade of red, and he's shivering so hard again his teeth are clacking together as she goes and gets his dressing gown and drapes it over his shoulders, then sits on the floor in the doorway.

"Come to back to Durham with me. I need to finish packing before the end of the month, and you can help me." She grins when he gives her a look that tells her exactly what he thinks about helping her pack. "Alright, I can pack and you can mock my classmates and the professors while I finish my finals."

He's tempted by the idea. The idea of being far from everything is strangely freeing, and he finds himself giving her a shrug that she takes for assent and she gives him a smile that he feels all the way to his toes, and he can't help but smile back at her.

"I'll need to let Mycroft know that I'm going though," Sherlock said sourly as he thought about it. "I don't want him calling our parents thinking I've died somewhere and worrying them."

"It's fine, he knows you're with me."

She offers him a hand up, and Sherlock just stares at her for a minute as what she's said hits home. He can feel his heart start to beat faster, and he feels sick. He stands up then has to swallow twice before he can ask her what she meant, and later this is the part that he wishes he could have taken back.

"Why would Mycroft know that I'm with you unless you've spoken to him?" And for one of the few times in his life, Sherlock desperately wants to be _wrong. _Wants her to laugh it off and say that what he is thinking is _wrong_ and that she's come to him because she wants to and not because he's some sort of fucking charity case that needed looking after.

Sara frowned up at him, he knows that she's picking up on his rising anxiety in a way that surprises him even though it's a very common Omega to Alpha response, but then again she always been more clever than most.

"Sherlock, it's not what you think. Yes, Mycroft did call me, but I was coming back home to see you anyway, I'd already planned it," Sara said with a plea in her voice as she tried to take his hand, but he jerks back from her with a snarl.

Sherlock hears nothing beyond Mycroft's name. Hears nothing after the fact that once again he has been made into something that needed to be dealt with by his _interfering fat fuck of a brother. _

"How much did he have to offer you to come to London?" Sherlock feels like he's been gutted by the humiliation that is coursing through his veins. How could he have been so _stupid? _

"Nothing! Christ, will you just _listen_ to me? I would never do something like that and you know it." Sara tries to take his hand again, and he slaps her hand away from him hard enough that she yelps in shock.

He can see tears welling in her eyes now and it makes something in his chest give a sharp twist, but he coldly pushes it away. Sara came because Mycroft asked her to. She never really cared. Never, never, never. Fucking sentiment, and fucking Omegas and their goddamn scent because even now the smell of frightened Omega is making him want to soothe her.

Sherlock tugs on his clothes and gives her a cold smile. "You can tell Mycroft that I don't need a keeper, and if he wants to buy me with a woman he can at least get me a more experienced Omega whore next time."

It's a low blow and he sees all the colour drain from her face and Sara sucks in sharp breath at the insult, and immediately he wants to take it back but it's too late, the words have left his mouth and cannot be taken back.

"I did it because I loved you," Sara whispered, and then she turns and walks out of the room and out of his life without another word.

* * *

Sherlock presses his fingers to his eyes before he gets out of the cab. Wallowing in the past will accomplish nothing. Moriarty has obviously brought Moran, and by association, Sara, back to England for some as of yet unknown purpose. So, all he has to do is find Moran as quickly as possible and get Sara as far away from London and Moriarty, and his machinations as he can.

Shouldn't be too difficult, right?


	2. Chapter 2

"This is just what we need. Another Ripper copycat." Anderson sounds completely disgusted with the world in general as he makes another notation.

"_Obviously _he's copying the Ripper murders," Sherlock says dismissively. "Honestly, you would think that people would get more creative."

"If this is so bloody boring for you, why were you so keen to inflict us with your presence?" Anderson asks with affront, as he makes a measurement of one of the multiple slashes along her abdomen.

Sherlock stands up from where he had been crouched next to the body, and gestures to the white sheet that had been hung up.

"What message was left?"

Anderson makes another note, and answers him absently. "It said Rheinallt. The surname of an American doctor. She's a psychiatrist, and Lestrade said that this is the work of one of her former patients, and that the man also is a known acquaintance of Jim Moriarty." He looks up at Sherlock then lowers his voice. "Sounds like he had a bit of a fixation involving her as well."

He had wanted to see how much they knew, how much they've put it all together, and for once he's stunned with how perceptive Phillip_ Anderson _of all people is being. Christ, of all the times for the man to be ahead of the others, this is definitely not bloody well it.

"How long has it been since she was discovered here?"

Anderson raises a brow at him, but it lacks the malice of their previous encounters. "I thought you were supposed to be _the_ consulting detective?"

"From the scent of the blood, and the abundance of semen still drying on the body, it's been less than two hours since she was murdered." He directs his comment at Anderson and has the satisfaction of seeing the Beta snarl in irritation, but it is Lestrade that reacts as if he had been poked with a sharp stick.

"The blood was still tacky when we'd arrived," Lestrade said pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. "Anonymous call as to the whereabouts of the body."

"The security camera should yield an excellent view of your murderer," Sherlock said sarcastically as he removed his gloves (he knows already it _won't, _Moriarty will have seen to it) but Lestrade is shaking his head before he finishes speaking.

"The was a camera malfunction at the time the girl was being killed. The only footage shows her lying here afterwards, and a wall dripping blood," Lestrade said in frustration. "Christ, it's like something out of a bloody horror film."

"Malfunctioned?" Sherlock said in disbelief.

His brother's eyes and ears never malfunctioned. Moriarty isn't trying to hide the fact that Moran is doing the killings now (not with Sara's surname on the wall for all to see) and he walks back over to the dead girl knowing that he is missing something beyond the murder itself even as the thought chafes him.

"Yeah. Rather convenient timing, wouldn't you say? Sebastian Moran is back in London, and suddenly CCTV is being circumvented. Dr. Rheinallt is going to be meeting us at Bart's to examine the body." Lestrade gave Sherlock a curious look. "You know her, don't you?"

Sherlock just nods silently as he crouches next to the body. What is he missing? Was there something special about her, or was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time?

She's an Omega by the faint scent of lavender that lingers on her even in death. Each Omega and Alpha produce a scent that is unique to the individual; Omegas tend to have more floral or citrus based scents, while their Alpha counterparts are usually on the spicier end of the spectrum though a person's scent could change somewhat for several reasons. How healthy they were, maturity, where they were in their heat cycle, and bonding are the most common reasons for a base scent to change, though drug use could contribute to it as well. Her long hair is dyed a truly shocking shade of red, and she is thin to the point of emaciation. Cheap clothing, the imitation leather skirt and shoes indicates she wasn't spending her money on clothing. He pushes up the sleeve of her coat noting multiple needle marks in the bend of her arm, the money goes to support her drug habit, and he feels a faint stab of pity for the girl that he refuses to acknowledge. Her throat had been cut with enough force her trachea had been laid open, and the vertebra in her spine were visible in the gaping wound. Blood is everywhere, and he's surprised in a sense that no one noticed the killer, he had to have been drenched in her blood. The scent of it, along with perforated intestines and rutting Alpha fouls the air as he studies the ragged incision the killer had made in her abdomen. Her left kidney had been removed, and her uterus had been pulled out through one of the deep slash marks in her stomach.

It might have started out slightly reminiscent of the Ripper murders with the sheer butchery that had been committed, but Moran had changed it with the rape. There were copious amounts of seminal fluid on the girl's body along with the blood Sherlock doesn't think that it is a deliberate change, he just thinks that Sebastian Moran has that little control left of himself at this point. He has a thought that makes his blood run cold, and turns her head to the side to expose the area where her scent gland would have been, and though it is been savagely cut as well he can see the puncture marks that are consistent with a bond-mark.

He shivers slightly when he thinks about the fact that this is the man that his brother is going to put Sara up against. This Alpha that is utterly without rules to govern himself if he'd slid that far from Moriarty's grasp to have sunk into complete depravity.

He is drug from his thoughts by the sound of Donovan's voice and for once he is glad for the distraction.

"He raped her after she was dead," Donovan says to no one in particular, but there is a note of horror and disgust in her voice that is plain for all to hear. "He _… knotted_ her after she'd died."

She flushes when she meets Sherlock's eyes and immediately goes on the defensive.

"At least Lestrade did the right thing. Bringing in a freak to catch one," she says loudly as she stomps off.

Sherlock lets her go without comment. The sharp smell of her fear and anger had permeated the air aound her. He knows Donovan is an Alpha, not an Omega to share the horror of being knotted without consenting, but as a detective for the Yard she's probably seen more than her fare share of brutalized Omegas.

Omegas were to be treasured and kept safe by their Alphas. They were rare and to be valued by society. That is the dogma fed to children nowadays, but the reality is somewhat different.

He remembers Sara coming home with a black eye and a split lip because the neighbour's son had hit her for not giving him her bicycle when they were children. Sara had knocked out one of his teeth for his trouble before the little bastard's parents had the audacity to come to her house demanding to know why the Rheinallt's Omega daughter would dare to hit their Alpha son.

He and Mycroft had made the little berk's life a complete hell for the rest of the summer in retribution. After all this time the memory still makes him want to smile. Sara had insisted she'd done well enough on her own, but he'd caught her laughing after they'd put a beehive (with bees still intact) in the boy's bedroom on night. She'd pressed a kiss to each of their cheeks, and proclaimed them "Kings of the Realm" and he'd thought at the time he would have done anything to keep that bright, shining look on her face.

Truthfully it hasn't been that long since it was legal for an Alpha to do anything they wished with an Omega behind closed doors. Omegas were even now considered by some to be the property of their Alpha if they were bonded, and there was nothing to protect them beyond the benevolence of their bond. And as for unbonded Omegas? They still had to be very careful with their heats and bonding because it was hard to prove rape when the body was willing, and if they were bonded during an attack? Suicides weren't uncommon after unwilling sex had taken place, or an unwanted bond formed between the Omega and their attacker.

Omegas could go about in society now unbonded, have careers, live their lives as _they_ saw fit, not as their Alpha did. It still didn't mean they had to be any less cautious for it.

"I'll meet you at Bart's," Sherlock tells Lestrade. "I have to make a stop first, but I'll be there within the hour." He's sees the look of surprise on the man's face, but Sherlock just keeps walking. He needs to talk to his brother and see what else he knows about Sebastian Moran and find out just how out of Moriarty's control he is. He needs to talk to John and see if the doctor has anything to offer from a medical standpoint, and sends him a text demanding he meet him at his brother's.

* * *

"You're setting Sara up as bait, aren't you?" Sherlock said in disgust as he skimmed through the file his brother had given him about Moran's time in the psychiatric hospital where Sara had been his attending physician, before he handed it to John. "He tore the other Omegas apart. He knotted that girl last night after she was dead. What exactly to you think he'll do to Sara?"

Mycroft stood up, white-faced with fury, and sits his glass down with a decisive _click_ that tells Sherlock he was one step away from throwing it. "It was always going to come down to this whether she came back to London or not. At least if this way if she's here I can ensure she's well protected."

"And how exactly do you propose to do that?" Sherlock sneered at him. "You did such a splendid job with Moriarty last time."

"Alright girls. I think it might be time to focus on the larger picture. If Moriarty is responsible for setting Moran loose and him coming to London …" John's voice trailed off and he shook his head. "No, I really can't see it. Why would he want with a serial murderer? And what is the significance of this American doctor?"

"She's not an American. She's just been living there off and on since her parents died," Sherlock said vehemently in denial. He sees both John and Mycroft staring at his outburst and flushes, even as he mentally curses himself for it - because the look John gives him says that he's going to be asking _questions _he won't want to answer later. Mycroft just gives him a smug look that he remembers well from their youth. _Sodding know it all_, Sherlock thinks sourly.

Mycroft brushes an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve with a toothy smile. "You had better leave now if you want to meet Sara at the morgue. Her plane has landed and she is en route to the hospital now."

Sherlock turns and leaves without another word leaving John to give Mycroft a hasty farewell before hurrying after him. They had been riding silently for several minutes before John breaks.

"So, how do _we_ know this American doctor?" John asks casually.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. _"My _parents were friends with hers and _we_ used to holiday in Wales in the summer. Occasionally. And she's not an American."

"Okay, she's just an Omega of Welsh origin that you've happened to have known most of your life?" John said with a shit-eating grin. "An Omega that you've no interest in at all beyond her help in catching Moran?"

"The fact that she's an Omega has nothing to do with anything. She was just a friend, it was never anything beyond that." Sherlock gives him a look that practically screams, _shut-up-now._

John is practially gleeful now, and his blue eyes shine with good humour. "So, she's a _friend _now, is she? Bit rich coming from you, Mr. I Don't-Have-Any-Friends."

Sherlock scowled harder. "This is all very amusing, but could we please get back to the fact that Moriarty has unleashed his minion upon London with an as of yet unknown agenda."

John's brow crinkled in thought. "I don't know if it is unknown though. How well … aquainted are you with the American? Is there any chance at all she could be working with Moriarty?"

Sherlock wants to reject the suggestion outright. The idea of Sara being some tool of Moriarty rankles him on an almost primitive level, but it would be incredibly foolish to just dismiss it completely without further investigation. "It's highly unlikely that there is a connection between Sara and Moriarty that Mycroft wouldn't have been aware of … but I will find out soon enough."

John can see how badly the idea sits with him though, and the fact that is _does_ bother his normally stoic friend is telling indeed. He also thinks that he is honour bound as Sherlock's friend to help take his mind off the worrying possibilty, and the best way to do it is to continue to harrass him about his relationship with the mystery Omega.

And he's wildly curious, and doesn't mind prying a bit.

"So, what's your American like?" John grins at him, ignoring the black look that Sherlock gives him. "Come on, if the situation were reversed you'd ask. Well, you'd probably deduce it from the way I'd combed my hair this morning, but break it down for us mere mortals."

Then he waits because there's little his friend enjoys more than showing off his abilities, but there is a long pause … and then … nothing.

Sherlock is decidedly not acting like his (ha!) normal self, so after a few beats of silence, John plunges back in.

"Alright. So she's a doctor. Psychiatrist, right? She was the one who got Moran convicted on multiple rape and murder charges in the states, and now he's fixated on her." At Sherlock's tight nod he continues. "So that's why she's here, and what she does for a living. What does she mean to you?"

Sherlock opens his mouth then shuts it, rubbing a hand through his hair in a uncharacteristic display of nerves that surprises John - then all he can do is listen as Sherlock tells him about Sara. He looks wretched and guilty, and John's not sure what's more of a shock; the fact that the git had obviously cared deeply for her, or the fact he let her go. If he's ever met anyone that's constitutionally unable to back down from a challenge, it's Sherlock.

So he asks.

"Why didn't you go after her then?"

Sherlock being Sherlock mutters something under his breath that John can't quite catch and gives him a bleak look. "I'd said unforgivable things to her."

John shakes his head and gives a huff of laughter that has Sherlock looking at him with bewilderment, and a type of weary hurt that reminds John just how little experience his friend has in dealing with his emotions.

"That's what you do when you love someone, you daft git. You forgive them most anything."

"Such as someone faking their own death or being an assassin?" Sherlock said with an angelic smile after pondering what John had told him.

"Cheeky bastard," John retorted. "So you haven't seen her since uni then, yeah?"

"Not exactly." Sherlock hedged as he busies himself looking at his phone. He knows John won't drop it though and isn't surprised when he peppers him with questions.

"So I take she's not bonded?" John grins hugely when he sees Sherlock startle at the question, then watches in disbelief as he blushes a bit. "I cannot _wait_ to meet your American now."

"Shut up, John."

"Would you rather I called her your Omega instead?"

"SHUT UP!"

The rest of the ride is made in silence.

* * *

John isn't sure precisely what he's expecting from Sherlock's mystery woman. He has visions of someone that's beautiful and brilliant, like Irene Adler had been. Demanding and a bit unreachable, and not entirely unlike Sherlock himself in some ways. For all that Sherlock tries to deny his emotions and any sort of the typical associated Alpha behaviours, he has at times in the past (albeit, very rarely) shown interest in a select few, and John's always held out hope that his friend would finally let himself need someone. To find someone to love and to bond with because if there was anyone that intrinsically needed love, Sherlock was it. He wears his solitude like a shield that he holds firmly between himself and the rest of the outside world, but at times John gets glimpses of the lonely man underneath and he _still _hasn't given up hope of seeing his friend happy.

So he expects someone aloof and beautiful that he will pretend to like even if he loathes her for Sherlock's sake at least, but the reality is quite different.

He walks into the morgue ahead of Sherlock and sees Donovan and Lestrade deep in conversation with a red-haired woman that (judging by scent of Omega that now permeates the room) must be Sara.

John studies her curiously for a minute. Dr. Rheinallt is dressed casually in snug jeans tucked into brown boots and a oatmeal coloured jumper that looks like some sort of horribly expensive silk and wool material that Sherlock would wear. She's short with a slim build, and walks with a faint limp. There's a complex brace on her right knee, hinged with strapping above and below the joint, but she doesn't seem bothered by it, so it's not a recent injury. Bright, red-gold hair hangs in waves to just past her shoulders, and she has the typically fair complexion of most gingers along with a dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose and along her high cheekbones. Full lips quirk in a slight smile that tells him she is aware of his scrutiny and arches a delicate brow at him before her eyes widen slightly, and John knows that she's caught sight of the detective coming in the room behind him.

"Hello Sherlock."


End file.
